


The Artist

by sam_erotica



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:40:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sam_erotica/pseuds/sam_erotica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I naively thought he just wanted my image on his canvas; I didn’t know then that I was the canvas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artist

He's watching me sleep again.  
  
In truth, I'm not really sleeping, I'm just hovering in that soft place between waking and dreaming, watching the red and black patterns dance on the backs of my eyelids. I can't hear him shift behind me as my face sinks deeper into the pillow, but I know he is there. I know his movements like I know the sound of my own voice.  
  
He is sketching me.  
  
I try to imagine what he sees of me, with my back turned to him. He must notice how my skin glistens in the pale moonlight that filters into the room, sticky from my sweat and our cum and his exploration of me. He must see the ankles that just an hour ago were wrapped desperately around his as I slid into him, he on his hands and knees, me gripping his hips and pulling them toward mine. His fingers skim lightly over them now, as he absorbs them with eyes and fingers, recreates them on his page with pencil. This body, my body, now so familiar to him. He knows the tang of my sweat, the silk of my mouth. He knows the way I sometimes lose my voice from crying out _deeper, deeper_. He knows the way I lose my will to his, after coming hard and fast under his heaving body. He knows that my limbs ache and bruise at his touch, and that I sometimes want that pain more than anything else.  
  
His fingers skim my thighs, and I remember them pressed against his as he gave in to his orgasm. The memory of it floods my body, awakens my cock and quickens my breath. I remember the way he moaned my name, hips bucking, hands clenching.  
  
Rough fingers memorize my shoulder blades, arms, belly, cock. I inhale sharply as he squeezes and pumps my flesh gently, insistently. And then the paper and pencil are forgotten and he is moving behind me and into me with exploring fingers. I push back towards him, unable to resist when I feel the slick heat of his erection against me.  
  
I am filled in one slow thrust, and we rock together – my cock in his hand, his teeth on my neck.

The truth is that he could do anything to me, and I would let him. I would let him, and I would hate myself for it. That was how it started with us - he whispered _let me paint you_ , after too much whiskey and too many hours wasted by the pool table together. I didn’t know how to say no to him then, and I still don’t. But that first time, through my drunken haze, I naively thought he just wanted my image on his canvas; I didn’t know then that I was the canvas. Then he licked gesso onto my lips, and onto the smooth plane of my jaw, and my hip, and there was no arguing - I was his.

Now I am nothing but his color and his canvas. His light hair against my dark like a sunrise as our lips press together, urgently, possessively. My hands and knees, clenched and bloodless, pale against his green sheets. His sea blue eyes etch the back of my neck, tracing my sweat-soaked hair with azure lust. Pink tongue and white teeth mark me, breaking my flesh when I beg him _harder_ , branding my shoulder as he slides steadily in and out and in again. 

We pound against each other, his fingers massaging my erection brutally. It’s what I didn’t know I wanted, and I can think of nothing else, as his fierce whisper in my ear taunts me – _Come on, you bastard. Come for me_. And at his words I do, the white of my release a shocking brushstroke across the sheets, the two of us rocking against each other until we are both spent, but I alone am broken. 


End file.
